


The Good Spell Book

by Jinxit13



Category: Bellamione - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Bellamione - Freeform, Bellatrix Black - Freeform, F/F, Multi, Teacher-Student Relationship, danceschool, hermione granger - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23205265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinxit13/pseuds/Jinxit13
Summary: Student!Teacher Bellamione AU:It all starts with a vitriolic - if not partly alcoholic - Professor Black and ends with a kiss in the rain.BELLAMIONE GOODNESS. Rating will be changed to M for later chapters.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Comments: 17
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

**1**

“Just don’t laugh. She won’t like that” _–_ _**D L Malfoy.**_

_The TEP Academy, London_

_3 rd September 2020_

The North Wing of _The TEP Academy_ foyer had been reserved for the students of Melpomene House since 1902. There was a small library on the ground floor which was circular and cold, and the fire hadn’t worked in years; flames of vanilla paper and broken leather sitting astride the paperbacks, collecting dust. It was beautiful and haunting and _heavy,_ and where the Portland stone fell away from the wall, it was all dark wood and dim lighting and it smelt like scholarship and tradition; a pocket full of chambers stuffed tight with stars and tied tight with the scent of Black magic.

Tiny windows embellished with corbels had been left ajar by the caretaker over the summer and the common rooms’ sweet incense and pungent leather had since been replaced by the stale fragrance of London’s drunken debauchery; a cavity of misadventure gnawing at the Penelope Blue bones of it - teeth of mahogany and velvet and gold. There were bookcases galore - and trophies too - and where the ceiling fell away from the sky, the floorboards appeared to shimmer beneath the dusky-pink dome of the city; dust-eddies floating across the big, empty square in the middle of the room. 

It was there that Hermione Granger stood - suspended between lives - and feeling strangely as though she had fallen into the parts of the night sky where there are no stars and even fewer dreams. She had friends in Melpomene House, but she knew that their friendships – tentative and fragile in their permanency- would be able to do little to protect her from the wrath of their Head of House should the Professor decide that she simply wasn’t up to scratch.

The pre-established circle of Melpomene students’ that Hermione had met over the summer all possessed a certain kind of prominence; a name that could be wielded as currency or a family tapestry that stretched around the world twice over, and they – unlike Hermione – knew which Professors’ needed to have their egos stroked or their pedestals polished in order to clinch a respectable grade. The fact that Hermione was a scholarship student automatically meant that she was going to have to work twice as hard to be considered half as good and her scholarship was a secret that had been stored tightly against the stars; distant and shiny and _true._

It wasn’t that Hermione wasn’t looking forward to the challenge that her status (or lack thereof) would enviably bring. _She was._ There was nothing she liked more than proving people wrong, but the Professors were bound to know the truth of her, and there was nothing she could do about that. Maybe they would turn a blind eye to her altogether, or maybe they'd flaunt their inside-knowledge around the classroom like a weapon; either way, she was going to need to maintain a strong grip on her self-worth if she was going to tread the boards here successfully. That frightened her more than the circumstances surrounding her transfer did. 

The syllabus at The University of Dublin had been nothing short of excellent, which was perhaps why she was able to secure a transfer in the first place, but there were few schools could match The TEP Academies tenacity for success. Its illustrious reputation was glossy and bright and had brought many a rival to their knees over the years; so much so, that Hermione could feel a noose tightening around her neck; whispering _‘fraud’_ over and over again. She didn't possess the name, the calibre or the self-righteousness the school seemed to demand from its students. The noose slipped lower and lower with every step that she took towards the fireplace until it became itchy and _tight_ , and although she wasn’t ‘technically’ a fraud because she wasn’t ‘technically’ pretending to be a person she wasn’t, she wasn’t exactly being herself either.

Hermione strongly suspected that her birth mothers’ affiliation with the University had had a hand in her acceptance. Renee Freeman – the student who had had an affair with her father in the late nineties - had subscribed to the university in it’s prime, that much Hermione understood to be true. But she had likely been a scholarship student too, and her tenure had been short-lived, because as far as Hermione could surmise from the sketchy articles fed to her by her father, Freeman had neither graduated nor continued to pursue a career in the arts. She had, however, been talented. There was no way she would have been granted access to a University of such calibre if that hadn’t had been the case and there was no feasible explanation for Hermione’s swift acceptance other than the influential weight of someone else’s’ reputation.

It was likely, Hermione thought, as she stared at the portraits on the wall, that her mother had been schooled alongside some of the Professors. Perhaps they would know more about Hermione’s origins than she did. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe, if Renee had in fact been a scholarship student like Hermione, she wouldn’t have been worth a second glance. It was entirely possible that Hermione was the reason she hadn’t graduated. Was it possible to perform a _pirouette_ whilst heavily pregnant?

Hermione hoped she’d never find out, but then again, her roommate’s wise words of wisdom seemed to be rebounding around her skull quicker than Gemma Collin’s rebounded from the gym; unhelpful in the same way a blind person might be if you had to rely on them to tell you when the traffic light had switched to green.

_“If we indulge in anything remotely pleasurable Mione – sex, pizza, Barbra Streisand – then you better be prepared to cut off a butt cheek to put it right. Professor Black will hone in on a muffin top quicker than a heat-seeking missile in Iran.”_

That explained why the mere mention of ordering a fucking * _pizza*_ sent Draco Malfoy into a tizzy, but now, as Hermione ran her hands across the barre in the corner of the room, her previously absent sympathy for her birthmother emerged ten-fold. Pregnancy wasn’t _exactly_ an immediate concern for Hermione; in fact, if she fell pregnant, she’d have to call the baby 'Jesus', because it would be a bloody miracle, but still, the thought of confiding in Draco Malfoy (or any of the other TEP students) would be enough to trigger a string of spontaneous combustions across the campus strong enough to bring down a tyrannosaurus on heat.

That didn’t make her feel better, but at least it wasn’t a concern that belonged to her. Hermione had lived with Draco Malfoy ever since her arrival in the city, inheriting the rent from his former roommate, Blaise Zabini: a third-year who had crashed out of Musical Performance with a less-than-idyllic report card bruising his less-than-idyllic ego.

In the first instance, Draco and Hermione had been a combination doomed to fall at the first hurdle. They’d bickered incessantly over the furnishings inside the apartment (Hermione had just wanted _somewhere_ to store her books, but _Draco…_ well _,_ he had wanted the living area to remain bare so that his whims of artistic inspiration would not be dampened by the smell of Hermione’s ‘dusty, old knowledge’). After one too many tantrums (from Draco) and one too many threats (from Hermione), they’d finally found their stride, tweaking the apartment until it looked something like the highest point in a Broadway enthusiasts’ heaven. 

This was all quite needless to say because even though it had taken a while for Hermione’s preconceptions of Draco to be overtaken by the reality of his existence, she quite liked the artist now. Unlike her own humble relationship with her mother and father back home in Ireland, Draco was comfortably distant from the parents that had birthed him. They coughed up for his tuition with a grimace of disapproval and they showed up annually to check that he still had a pulse, but they were prudish, and he was anything but, creating a divide between them wider than the gap between Laura Hutton’s front teeth. He may have boasted an impressive surname with a weighty history sewn into the silvery seams of it, but his attitude was modest and the pair had clicked quite without preamble after their initial spats; similar in the way that they were two stray cats who, determined to kick on in life without endorsement or fuss.

Hermione quickly learned from the array of colourful characters that tramped out of their apartment in the mornings that Draco thrived on the brashness of life. He was a natural hustler, worldly beyond his twenty years, and he had survived familial estrangement thus far by working as a rent boy in the London borough of Camden. Hermione hadn’t the guts to follow suit – _thank god_ \- so she had instead landed enough hours under the romantic canopy of Leadenhall Street Market to make ends meet in a little bar called _The Jam Jar_. She split the rest of her time between the library and Camden market, browsing for books and busking for bunce.

The balance Hermione had been seeking on arrival in the city had been achieved and with Draco’s help, she slipped safely into the network of pre-established Melpomene students quietly, without commotion or fuss. Thus forth, the summer had commenced smoothly, filled with many a story about The TEP Academy’s wonderous alumni and the wide array of colourful professors that could be found there, including their vitriolic – if not partly alcoholic – Head of House: _Professor Black._

Draco had supplied his new roommate with many a story about his time as a student under the infallible Professor’s wing, favourably describing her as _‘unafraid of a little controversy,’_ and _‘more than capable of_ _through each new syllabus on a ruthless tirade of constant crudeness and cruelty.’_

Hermione hadn’t been overly encouraged by that, but the admiration in Draco’s accounts of the Professor seemed to imply that she ought to have been. He had amended his narrative upon seeing the concern on Hermione’s face, adding that Black _did_ possess a brilliant flair the dramatics – a huge source of entertainment for those seniors permitted to join Musical Performance, the crème de la crème of the curriculum, (as long as you weren’t on the receiving end of her provocative slurs) – and she _was_ the consummate professional when it came to delivering a gut-curdling one-liner. _‘Comic prowess is part of the unexpected genius of her’_ he had said giddily as if that erased the wickedness of her. _Just don’t laugh,_ he’d warned. _She won’t like that._

The Professor hadn’t _seemed_ all that intimidating, Hermione thought, remembering the woman who had sat in on her entrance exam.

The Professor had worn her gentry well; like a blade embedded in a skull. It had been slick and excessive, and Hermione had wanted to roll her eyes at it; to yank it free and clean the blade (just to see what was left behind). But she couldn’t – not if wanted to secure herself a future in one the Professor’s classes - so she had turned away instead; continued with the task at hand; aware that she was being watched and that it felt nice (to be watched) (by her _)_. The impertinence of the Professor’s gaze and the contrast of her mature heart against the shiny newness of Hermione's had captured the student’s imagination in a big way. The Professor hadn't been generous in her interaction, but she had been _present._ Hermione knew there wasn't a hair on her head that the Professor had not zoned in on and to be _seen_ like that - like she'd been waiting for Hermione all her life - had not been easy to forget. 

The entry exam had gone smoothly enough and everything Draco had told her about the Professor appeared to be _distantly_ true; but still, Hermione found that she didn’t particularly fear the onslaught of her inevitable rejection. In fact, Hermione had been elevated by it and she’d pushed herself even harder to _be_ better; to gain the Professor’s respect; to draw her in and make her think. Hermione basked in the tiny tick of a smile she received in her last audition because as fleeting as it was, it was hard-earned, and she dined out on the pride it gave her for weeks afterward.

Hermione found that the nickname afforded to ' _Cruella'_ didn’t quite fit, though. Yes, the Professor rocked vintage Ralph Lauren tuxes and yes, they had been cut like glass - the colour of clouds around the moon – but when she was wasn’t wearing a lacy bralette or skin-tight leotard, she wore white silk slashed open to the ribs and the effect was quite breath-taking. She was efficient and polite, dropping into the auditions with a tight-lipped smile and a quiet deposition and although she’d been exuberant (at times) – and even unpredictable, perhaps – she had not been deranged or cruel. When the stressful period had _finally_ ended, and the final round of auditions had been wrapped up, the Professor had surprised them all by gleefully upending her chair and storming out of the auditorium clapping her hands over her head in approval; her long, light-auburn bob-cut swinging around her neck as she went.

The two pictures – Draco’s description and Hermione’s experience of the Professor - didn’t quite seem to align.

It nagged on Hermione's conscious, because they didn’t form a whole.

Now that the adrenaline had worn off, Hermione realised that she couldn’t really have deciphered the Professor’s reaction to her audition; the light had been too dim to see the expressions of the panel, but she felt that the Professor was ultimately impressed; maybe even excited by the prospect of expanding her class. Of course, Hermione might have been wrong, but she _felt_ it; the bubbling sense of potential pushing through her veins and the excitement that bloomed behind it. She knew deep down that feeling – that desperate, pathetic feeling of _‘are we going to be able to pull this off?_ – that she had been chasing her whole life belonged to the Professor now.

And she knew that _she_ knew it, too.

There was potential in Hermione – even if it did come wrapped in shamrock and Guinness – and it was The TEP Academy's for the taking.

 _So, what had Hermione missed that Draco so obviously had not_?

She'd liked the Professor immediately.

Hermione turned this strange anomaly over in her head as she waited to be collected by said Head of House; her fingers climbing nervously over the ladder of her ribcage as she remembered home and it’s distance; the scratchy edges of a lengthy scab reminding her of what she’d left behind. She searched for something and nothing to bridge the gap between knowing and unknowing, her gaze skirting across the plush Honour’s Board that hung above the open hearth:

**{INSERT BOARD}**

She was mid-way through memorising the different factions and their corresponding illustrations when a sinfully smooth _tut, tut, tut_ broke her out of her reverie. She’d never been _tutted_ at before in her life - save for one exception - and her mind, which had once whirred like an engine - all neat clockwork, and polished dials - now stuttered stop-start on all the pills jammed in its gears. There was a mute moment of nothingness that caught upon the turrets and then, like a bottle of black magic that had been unstoppered, the chamber seemed to shake with the force of it; human magic, thick like blood, bright like fire swirling in the space between them. Hermione wheeled around to face the intruder, her shamrock-green eyes aligning to collide slap-bang with the predatory twitch of The Angry Angel's smile. _Shit._

Hermione had seen this woman at The Jam Jar before; sitting in the parlour downstairs where only members were permitted to sit and only members were permitted to sit (in the dark) (with her). 

Now, the women Hermione had referred had nicknamed The Angry Angel (behind her back) was leaning casually against a stone archway at the back of the chamber, sinfully delicious in leotards of Black lace and powder grey. The sheer skirt had been arranged around her calves like a storm and her face was unreadable; a mask of practiced indifference, almost as if she had expected this strange turn of events to play out long before Hermione had received the memo. This ‘ _Professor Black’_ was nothing at all like the woman Hermione had danced for in July. If anything, she seemed a little quirky, as if she had been plonked half-way between reality and the moon and she didn’t seem to give much of a hoot whether her feet touched solid ground again or not; perfectly aloof as she examined her black nails.She was relaxed and unabashed, wearing two pairs of glasses on her square face and god only knows how many pencils in her hair. And if Hermione hadn’t been struck by the rounded candidness of her before; the grounded sensibility that came from her youthful exuberance or the directness of her sapphire black gaze, then she was certainly bowled over by the way she dressed.

Hermione was sure that The Angry Angel had already entered her mid-thirties and it appeared to suit her, for she juggled demure and wacky single-handedly; a little like a witch who just wanted to be let loose. In fact, now that Hermione saw her in the blush of the morning light, she looked oddly as if someone had dipped her in glue and dragged her through Camden Market; layered Tulle skirts of mesh and sheer lace rounding out the presence of her, filling a rather petite frame with pearls of intrigue. Hermione found herself fascinated by the thicket of stormy, black curls that had been piled high above her head - presumably by a child - and pinned haphazardly with pins of emerald and silver, one persistent curl fluttering over the bridge of her nose. There was a curling flick of bemusement that caressed the sharpest edges of her haughty expression and in the half-light, she looked an awful lot like the Professor that Hermione had seen sitting in on her audition, but sadly, upon closer inspection, they weren't one and the same.

There were three facts that Hermione knew about The Angry Angel and none of them were helpful to her now:

1) She was older (by a decade)

2) Colder (by an ice-age)

3) And she liked her martini's to be vodka, not gin; French vermouth; stirred. Dry. One olive on a toothpick, tucked against the rim. 

"Well pet, I must say I'm flattered." The Professor purred, running a polished nail over the back of a well-worn armchair. "I've never had someone seek me out at work before."

“I'm sorry. I'm actually waiting for Professor Black." Hermione looked around at the furnishings. "Do you know if I am in the correct house?"

"I'd say so." The Professor said, tilting her head with a slow smile. "Since this is my house and all."

"You mean, you're Professor _Black?_ "

"The one and only."

“But wait, that can't be right. You weren't there for my audition...were you?" Hermione asked numbly, decidedly floored. Her mind was scrambling to assemble the pieces she needed to put the invisible puzzle together, but it was decidedly lacking in the basics: namely, the corners. She was missing more than just the innards of this mystery. 

“Don’t you think you’d remember if I was?” 

There was a small flinch as Hermione stepped forward, sunlight tripping over her cheekbones in one solid block of amber and the momentary scrunch of the Professor’s brow - the way her lips immediately twitched as if desperate to ask her a question – and the slight flex of her finger’s as they curled around a bicep as if to ground herself - weren’t missed by her newest recruit. Hermione clamped her mouth shut and waited, thinking twice about voicing her confusion. The tension in the room was creeping up the walls and Hermione’s breath was urgent when it came, but she forced the confession to fit between the gap between her teeth, head shaking softly from side to side as she admitted: 

“You wouldn’t be easy to forget."

Her voice was cool; the Irish flexion bending her syllables until they were flat and hard to decipher. 

“You’ve tried.” The Professor said plainly. It wasn’t a question or even an observation; it was a confession tugged into the light and held there, waiting for Hermione to wrap her fingers around it and pull it back into the darkness. “True or false?”

“True.”

_False._

“I see.”

Hermione shuffled nervously on the tatty, thread-bare rug, feeling considerably inadequate beneath the steely eyes of her new Professor. _Could she see through her?_ She heard the tap of her stilettos – shiny like beetles - and tensed, but then she felt the analysing touch of the new Angry Angel’s fingertips tracing over her jaw and relented, allowing the Professor’s fingers to clasp at her chin and tilt it upwards, the action deliberate and assertive. The accord of the Professor’s perfume hung in the air around them: voluptuous notes of Cashmeran wood and Sambac jasmine sinking into the very bones of her, permanent and right and Hermione couldn’t imagine ever smelling perfume like that again. It made her heartache.

She realised then, when her heavily mascaraed eyes rose slowly to meet the scrutinising hardness of her teachers stare, that the Professor was only a few inches taller than her, and that was only because her heels were far more daring than Hermione could ever bring herself to dance in.

“I didn’t realise you were a dancer.” Professor Black said, eyeing the heels in Hermione’s hand. She paused, considering the girl with a gentle stare. When she spoke, it was murmured against the shadows, pushed against the darkness; never to be found again. Then she jolted Hermione’s face away from hers, stepping backward with a look of disdain. “I think I liked you better when I thought you were a bartender." 

“Would you have called me”

“What?”

“Would you have called me? If you'd have known that I was a dancer?”

“How is that relevant?” The Professor asked, her mouth turning into a snarl. 

Hermione knew she was balancing on the edge, but somewhere beneath the stubbornness, there were real, _hurt_ feelings at stake that needed to be addressed.

She'd saved this Professor from jumping into the canal once; which was bloody typical really, because she'd almost kissed her too.

“Either way, student or bartender, you didn’t call me. So now that I’m here, what difference does it really make to you?”

“It doesn’t. I wouldn’t have called.” 

_She would have._

Hermione could see it hanging there in the space between them: the twist of tides in her gold-flecked eyes betraying her thoughts, just for a moment. One moment to many. 

“I see,” Hermione said, throwing the Professor's words back at her. She flicked her tongue over her teeth to wipe the frustration away. 

“We very rarely accept transfers,” Professor Black declared; her eyes narrowed. She wiggled the clipboard in her hands, a glimmer of her resolve returning. Her swift departure from Hermione's line of conversation was a stark reminder of who was in control now. “Glasgow has a great programme.” 

“It does.” Hermione agreed tersely.

“And a very good reputation...” The Professor mused, wriggling her brow. “In fact, their Musical Performance department is one of the few that we consider to be our true competition."

“I learned a lot from my time there.”

“And yet you still left-”

“I had no choice.”

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I wanted to learn from the best of the best.”

“Bullshit. No one transfers in their third year.”

“I admit it wasn’t planned, but…”

“You had to.” Professor Black interrupted, apparently unimpressed. “So, what did you do? _Kill someone?”_

“What? _No!_ Of course not.” Hermione balked, scowling. If the Professor’s intuition was this good, Hermione was going to be in for a hell of a ride. Hermione hadn’t killed _anyone,_ but she had bailed, and some would argue that – given the circumstances behind her disappearance from the Isle of Talamh – that was far worse. She pressed her fingers against the sore patch over her ribs, praying hard that her poker face would not abandon her in her time of need and that this ‘Professor’ would never stumble across the real reason for her untimely transfer. “I…Um - I would never, ever hurt anyone. To suggest that I might even _kill_ \- well anyone- that really is preposterous-“

“Oh, stop the sputtering.” The teacher snapped, shoving the clipboard into Hermione’s stomach. The girl swallowed; the motion flexing the muscles in her throat. She folded her arms around the clipboard, as if it could shield her from view, and felt it’s sharp corners dig into the bruised purple of her ribs. “I don’t want to know how you wound up here or _why_...” The professor cocked a brow and Hermione could have sworn she heard imaginary shots being fired. “What I do want to know is, can you hold your own? This is my house,” Black said, gesturing to the Honours Board. “And Melpomene House is reserved for the best of the best. I will accept nothing less. Failure to adhere to my rules means failure to complete the course – no exceptions. Do I make myself clear?” 

“Yes, _Professor_. Quite.”

The Professor circled her once, zeroing in on all the little ways in which the girl shoved the life of the street into her palms. She had little gashes and scratches littering her jaw and they clawed down her throat to peek out from underneath her leotard, marring her youthful flesh with puckered lines of pink and mauve. Most of them, small and freshly earned, were healing slowly. One, however, just above her brow, was still an open wound, the torn skin bound by dried blood.

Bella wanted to touch it; to press her thumbprint against it and feel it smear across her temple. She wanted to reach out and ask: _What are you hiding, pet?_ But she didn’t. She turned away instead; her lungs filled with Hermione’s perfume and her mind preoccupied with the abrasiveness of her skin. She smiled; briefly wondering if the girl already knew how to play with fire, but then the smile slipped and faded away indefinitely when she remembered that she herself was made of paper. Still, when 'Hermione' wasn't stuck behind a bar, she was quite a pretty little thing to behold. Bella almost felt guilty for not having memorised the girls' face before. She'd always pretended not to notice the way the Irish bartender obsessed over the glasses behind the bar – cleaning them clockwise, never anti - or the way she wore the sleeves of her white shirt scrunched uncomfortably to the elbows. She'd pretended (for weeks, now) not to like the way she tugged her auburn-blonde curls into a relaxed half-up, half-down fashion, the top half embellished in layered braids to prevent it from falling into her eyes and she resolutely avoided studying the delicate half-needle tattoos that spilled down her arms in blocks of little grey lines. It wasn't easy, but in the half-light of the floral chandelier, she could even turn a blind eye to the nose-ring that she wore upon her left nostril (hideous!) and the genuine way her sorbet-soft smile quirked upwards to ask shyly for a smile in return (pointless).

She could even pretend not to search for a nametag. 

Hermione was the closest thing Bella had ever seen to _bohemian_ and it should have been horrifying. _It’s wasn't._

“By being assigned here, you represent **me.** ” She said, considering Hermione’s angular features. “You’re the first scholarship student in twenty years to do so; so make no mistake, we will crush you to get the role ourselves. But we are also family. We get through it together and we celebrate each other when there is big news, so don’t. Fuck. It. Up. You’ll never get a chance like this again.” Hermione squinted back at her and the Professor smiled. “The other houses are watching…and so _I am.”_

 _“_ I understand _,”_ Hermione said, running her fingertip’s over the invisible welts around her neck.

Tiny dots of light fell from the window above Hermione and they shattered in tiny constellations around her; an anomaly in a room full of tradition. There was a splinter of wholeness about her; a sharp, unknown edge that the Professor wanted to press her tongue against – drag her teeth across - and _bite down_. Her eyes were like meteors as they flicked over Professor Black’s face, oddly captivating in the dim, pink light of the dawn and when the Professor stepped away, apparently appeased by what she found, her head titled comically and a small, satisfied grin sugared her full lips. 

The Professor halted for a moment, seemingly thrown off stride and then said:

“Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"Start fucking walking."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! 
> 
> If you read the first chapter, let me first start by saying...thank you! (My acknowledgments are in the footnote).
> 
> But I'd also like to say, if you read this story last week, you may need to re-read chapter one. I have tweaked a few details in the first chapter which will make it necessary to read it again (sorry!), but I hope it will help clarify a few details that otherwise confused the first draft. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy it for what it is (unedited at the moment *hides head in shame*) & I'll see you in the footnotes!
> 
> Thank you.

**C H A P T E R T W O**

**2**

_“Your light can’t be dimmed, sweetheart.” – **Professor Black.**_

Hermione hung her head sheepishly as she followed the Professor down into the vault that housed Melpomene Houses’ private stairwell. Together, they followed the narrow curve of it upwards towards the mezzanine floor where a chorus of voices tumbled down the stairwell; cheerfully exuberant in their youthfulness and completely unaware of the approaching shitstorm heading their way. When they reached the top, the Professor appeared to come into her own; absorbing the light like a Black Dahlia in the sun. The effect was quite stunning, and for a moment, Hermione found herself wondering why she had never pursued this woman more seriously than that one-almost-kiss once-upon-a-time-ago. 

They continued upwards to the landing where the Professor’s airy office stood adjacent to another. The secondary office - identical in its likeness - belonged to Thalia’s Head of House; Melpomene’s Greek sister through history and a huge source of competition across the span of the decades. Between the two offices, there was a large double archway, and on the left, there was a plaque that read THALIA HOUSE. On the right, another plaque read: MELPOMENE HOUSE and high above the entryway, there were two masks interwoven; comedy and tragedy entwined as one. Hermione didn't need a lesson in Greek mythology to ascertain which of the sisters Melpomene House represented. 

"Hand it over," Professor Black said curtly, gesturing towards the clipboard Hermione was holding tightly against her chest. "Wait here."

Hermione did so without questioning the Professor, glancing around at the decor as she waited. The landing was a huge, light expanse of Portland stone and low-lying cabinets, and above the main sideboard, framed in gold, there was a heavy mahogany board which read:

**MELEPHONE HOUSE REPRESENTS;**

**Musical Performance represented by The Masquerade Masks**

**THALIA HOUSE, REPRESENTS;**

**Vocal Performance represented by The Retro Mic**

**Ballroom Dance represented by The Ballroom Gown**

**Acting and Improvisation represented by Vintage Tickets.**

**ARLECCHINO HOUSE REPRESENTS;**

**Writing represented by The Illustrators Quill**

**Fine Art represented by The Painters Palette**

**Photography represented by The Retro Camera**

**PANTALONE HOUSE REPRESENTS;**

**Stage Management and Technical represented The Curtain.**

**Costume and Design represented by The Corset.**

**Production on Film represented by The Megaphone**

Hermione liked matching the vintage illustrations with their corresponding subject, feeling privileged to have been assigned to the one faction which stood apart from the rest. Whereas Thalia, Arlecchino and Pantalone House all covered three separate subjects, Melpomene House rolled each of Thalia's core subjects into a singular, extensive programme for those it deemed worthy enough of mastering all aspects of Performing Arts. Hermione was beginning to understand why Draco felt that her assignment here was significant; it clearly wasn't an easy privilege to come by. 

Focus hitching and then returning full force, Hermione turned just as Professor Black reemerged with a stash full of papers and a red pen in hand. She hitched an eyebrow in Hermione's direction; a seamlessly smooth cue for her to follow suit and Hermione did so without hesitation, matching Professor Black stride for stride and, like a well-trained monkey - keeping a strict distance between them. She listened carefully as the Professor explained the layout of the land, flippantly and without pause. Both Melpomene House and Thalia House shared a network of corridors that wound around the buildings’ turrets and chambers, merging to frame two modernized studios’ on the northern front of the historic building and they, unlike the two opposing houses that mirrored them, had been divided into the newest quarters of the building, where the architecture was sprawling and the ceilings high. Big, arching windows and dark, glossy floors stretched the length of each studio they passed, each classroom sporting a sturdy, oakwood desk which had been perched upon a small platform at the end of each room. There were identical plaques nailed to each of the heavy, double-set doors at the further end of the corridor and as Hermione marched along behind Professor Black, she noticed that they had both been recently polished. 

The one to the right read: _Professor B Black._

The other _: Professor A Tonks._

Hermione craned her neck. The bulk of the faculty had resumed their defensive positions long before the sun had even cleared the turrets, including _Professor A Tonks_ who stood behind a heavy, oak desk at the end of her classroom with her arms behind her back; her face calm and her smile light. Hermione stumbled momentarily; startled to see the Professor again in such a different light. She wasn't wearing one of her tailor-made suits or practicing her sternest expression. She was relaxed and unabashed, totally at ease and in control. When her copper-light eyes snagged on the black fabric storming along their shared corridor - which, as it turned out, was really just Professor Black gleefully slamming shut a few of the lockers that had swung open over the summer - she tilted her head politely towards Hermione, subtly relaying her acknowledgment. It was precious, really; the discreet degree of her warmth. But it was there nonetheless and it made hope bloom in curious blotches of gold and pink- jasmine behind the cage in Hermione's ribs. 

Hermione continued along the corridor, trading the softest of smiles with Professor Tonks before sliding to a halt. She clearly hadn't been paying as much attention to Professor Black as she perhaps ought to have been, though, because she was pulled up short by the sound of the Professor clearing her throat inches from her face. Professor Black was standing against the doorframe to their right, one hand holding the door ajar and the other snapping fingers at Hermione. She had one eyebrow cocked impatiently, the other almost comically low and when she finally gained Hermione's full attention, she huffed with the excursion of it and said:

"Right, slip through here. Join the troops. Class will begin in five." 

Hermione squirmed and ducked through the door, thankful to find that Draco was there waiting for her on the other side. She caught his eye immediately, and - with a squeal so high in pitch that it rattled the very bones of the ravens on the roof - Draco broke away from the circle that framed him to wrap his arms around Hermione's waist; hoisting her high into the air and spinning her wildly across the room. Hermione tried hard not to screech in surprise as her feet flew around in a circle and her hands squatted at the arms that held her, but Draco was beaming with the widest of smiles; genuine and bubbly and bright and it was hard not to reciprocate his gleeful display of chivalry with a smile of her own. 

"Hermione! You're just in time. C'mon, I'll introduce you to everyone..."

"No, wait -" Hermione grabbed Draco by the bicep and hauled him around to face her. Her eyes flickered towards the door.

"Draco," she hissed, her voice suddenly urgent. "I think I may have made a _huge_ mistake coming here..."

"It's ten-to-nine. How could you have possibly fucked up already?" He looked at her and tutted. _Third time_. Hermione thought, _maybe Black was rubbing off on Draco._ "I thought dramatics were my forte?" 

"No, Draco, wait. You don't understand, really. I've met-"

But before Hermione could even finish her sentence, Draco was hauling her ass across the studio, motioning for her to sling her bag into one of the spare lockers (a row of which had been tucked inside a little alcove to the north of the studio) and change into her heels. She slipped out of her battered old Converses and wrestled into the shiny black heels her mother, Jean Granger, had given her for her birthday before rejoining Draco in the studio. The faces that turned to glance in their direction as they strode across the room were curious and taunt, watching them with slow smiles and big frowns; their leotards all one solid shade of black. "D-Draco, Draco, wait for a moment, please." Hermione huffed, mirrored by Draco. Then, when he saw the flat, unimpressed muse of her face, he relented, hands on his hip, and waited for her to spill. "Look, Draco, I'm confused. All summer, I thought we'd been talking about the _same_ woman, but...well. We haven't. I haven't been on the same page at all."

"What do you mean?" Draco asked. 

"Professor Tonks?" 

"No, it's Professor _Black_."

"No, Draco. I mean, I realise now that I've been talking about Professor Tonks the entire time. She was the Professor who approved my audition. I'm sure of it."

"That can't be right." Draco frowned. "Professor Black is notorious for _never_ missing an audition."

"Well, she missed mine." Hermione pouted, adjusting her leotard. "And Draco, there's something else I didn't mention-"

Draco's questioning eyebrow nearly hit the ceiling. "Please, _please_ don't tell me you've slept with her?"

"W-w-what? Oh, Draco, no! But... I have _met_ her before-"

"Just to be clear, we're talking about..."

_"Black."_

_Ah._

The rest of their conversation was hushed as the students closed in around them, the edges of Draco's frown catching on Hermione's mood. Clearly, something she had whispered against his ear didn't sit right with him, but before Hermione could dig for more information, Draco was checking his wrist and dragging her across the classroom, heels and all. He shoved her into the circle he'd just fallen out of, greeting his classmates enthusiastically. When Hermione hung back, he shot a look that told her to keep her mouth shut, at least for the time being, and pulled her forward by her leotard. If anyone saw the way Hermione winced or the way her diaphragm sunk, anticipating pain, they didn't show it. 

"Guys, this is my roommate, Mione. She's our new transfer from Dublin."

"I hope you've got a thick skin." Grinned one of the tallest girls in the circle. 

"You'll need it." Added another, grimacing slightly as she slipped into her stretches. "This is our third year here and we're only just beginning to grow ours"

"This isn't doing my nerves any favours." Hermione winced, giving Draco a sly pinch on his hips. He was looking far too smug since she'd indulged him with a story or two about the 'Professor Black' _she_ knew and Hermione quickly noticed, when she looked around the room, that where familiar faces were concerned, most of them had been assigned to Professor Tonks next door. _Great._

"You'll be fine," Draco said, tongue firmly implanted in the side of his cheek. "Just don't look like you're enjoying it. She _hates_ that."

Hermione was just beginning to calculate the possibility of her reaching the door before Draco could catch her when it swung wide open, revealing a stormy Professor Black; hungry and ready to discipline her troops. She took up her position just as the bell chimed 9 am, shooting the opposing Professor a seductive wink over her shoulder and then, like bullets hitting metal, their canes slapped the floor in quick succession - three neat taps - and their students skittered across the neighboring classrooms like a bag of spilled skittles; uniform and well-rounded, their skill-sets freshly buffed ahead of the new term. 

Hermione scrambled into line beside Draco, stealing one last look at Professor Tonks. She expected to find the Professor already in action - a blur of fire against the backdrop of the coppery sun - so it surprised her somewhat to find that the Professor was staring right back at her; her face pinched and coloured with concern. Hermione diverted her eyes to the floor, knocked off-kilter by Professor Tonks' subtle urgency. There was something there - something familiar - that Hermione had held in her palms before; and it shook the very foundations of her because it was distant and honorable and _true._ Hermione had looked into eyes not totally indifferent to Professor Tonks' and been rendered speechless before. _The magic in them_ , she realised now, _was one and the same. She'd felt it build her up - and tear her down - once before._

_And that meant..._

" _Oh!_ " She breathed, lifting onto her tiptoes and feeling like the last one to know about the party."They're _sisters_?"

"Who?" Draco hissed. "The Witches of Eastwick?"

"That answers my question."

"Yes, they're sisters," Draco confirmed, shielding his mouth behind his hand. "But Professor Tonks' is far nicer. She's the Head of Melpomene's sister house, Thalia, and you're going to wish that you'd been assigned there in approximately..." Draco checked the clock once more. "0.02 seconds."

"Why?"

_"F. Y. I."_

Draco froze, the muscle above his eye twitching comically. "You'll see."

And he was right. Hermione managed to close her mouth just in time. Professor Black was prowling and she did _not_ look happy. When she reached Draco, she turned on her heel and slammed the cane down - _hard_ \- between his feet, forcing Draco to swallow his yelp of surprise. 

"Sorry to disappoint you _Draco_ , but contrary to popular belief, I have _not_ been drafted in to portray Cruella Deville in a new Broadway adaption this summer," Draco's eyes widened into two, flat saucepans; his humiliation instant and easy to read. Hermione bit down on her lip - _hard_ \- and resisted the urge to smile, her eyes sticking to her feet. "That being said, I do recommend that you give the audition a try if the opportunity *miraculously* comes your way." The Professor barked, smirking as she prodded her students into line with the tip of her cane. _Maybe that was a fall-back career for her in the military after all._ She walked the line, pausing in front of a freckled redhead with a sloppy posture. "Nor Ginny, did I have an affair with a student." She cast an icy look over the redhead's beetroot complexion, following the blush as it bloomed beneath her skin. At least Ginny had the good sense not to argue back, but unfortunately, there was nothing that could be done to cool her down. "Not only are you all _far_ too inexperienced to handle me-" Her tongue flicked over her teeth; dangerous and slow and her eyes - which were shiny and bright - honed in on Hermione. "But it would also be _illegal!"_

The Professor sauntered down the line, pausing as if to speak and then continuing, keeping the students painfully on edge. A worrying cocked eyebrow in Hermione's direction reminded them all that no one was safe. "Not that it's any of your business Luna," she said, eyeing a girl in the middle of the line. "But I was also never caught with my legs behind my ears in the janitor's closet!" 

The entire line flinched, including Hermione. Professor Black was fuming, that much was clear, but there was a twinkle in her eye, too; a mischievous edge to her satirical brilliance that was infectious in the way that it was understated. _Shit_. Hermione thought. _I'm going to like her, too, in the end._

Upon returning to own chambers the previous evening, Professor Black had been delighted to be back in action after such a long, drawn-out summer. The floors had been buffed and polished and the posters put right, the vases refreshed and the curtains pulled back. Chords had thrummed from below as the returning faculty tested the sturdiness of their lesson plans; ensuring they were practical and water-tight. Professor Black did no such thing. She had been rolling out the same lesson plans since 2016 and they hadn't failed her yet, so she had instead focused on unpacking a few of the belongings that had accompanied her to Paris over the summer, including her favourite pair of black Latin heels and a silver flask. And then. like a petulant child, she had slumped down in her chair and rolled towards the light, playing with the shadows that fell upon the armrests. 

As was the tradition on the first day of the school year, The TEP Academy's Principle liked to deliver Bellatrix Black an impromptu dressing down. It never appeared to be rehearsed, but it occurred nevertheless, and it had become affectionately known as 'The Pre-emptive Bella Strike." 

The reason for Principle McGonagall's caution was simple. 

Gleeful only when the cat had been let loose amongst the pigeons, Professor Black had been relabelled more times than a DFS sofa. Infamously vitriolic - _if not partly alcoholic_ \- she was the youngest Professor on the TEP Academy faculty, and she waltzed through each new term sliding upon a slew of slick innuendoes and a serving a crude irony. Her unabashed tongue lashings - fierce, uncensored and delivered with the kind of comical prowess that would have Peter Kay running rings - meant that the Professor of Musical Performance waded through a sea of untalented undergrads with alarming efficiency, frequently ending the Autumn term with far fewer students in her house than originally permitted. 

There was no arguing with Bella. She was a fabulous teacher; an asset to the school. And her reputation was second to none, but recently it had taken a hit, and Minerva was determined not to have The TEP Academy's place upon the world-stage tarnished by Professor Black's indiscretions. She designed her approach to The Pre-emptive Strike carefully, intending to dissuade Bellatrix from running her classes like a military operation with kind authority, but the success of the Professor's roster, along with the fact that it was accompanied by a waiting list longer than the queue outside Greggs only served to prove to the Professor that her approach _worked._ Still, with the return of a shiny new competition pulling the academy further into the spotlight - and a new student that McGonagall, knew was bound to cause tempers to soar - Minerva couldn't risk any complaints from parents this term. 

Showbusiness was a cut-throat industry. _So was Professor Black._

Unlike previous pre-emptive strikes, Principle McGonagall's visit to the Professor's private quarters hadn't been able to wait until morning. The urgent nature of the invention - as Professor Black called it - had soon become (annoyingly) clear. Her prolonged absence taken in light of some personal trauma the previous academic year had sparked an unhealthy supply of potentially career-damaging and fallacious rumours, all of which had wormed their way down the campus' chain of gossip at a frantic pace. Thanks to a heads up from her sister, Andi, Bella had already been keenly aware of the fact that she was the new 'hot topic of the week' and she had laughed over cocktails at the absurdity of it all, but now that she was face to face with a soberingly frank Minerva McGonagall, her bulletproof facade now felt somewhat obliterated. Minerva had informed her, in a manner than was gravely formal (with no hint of her usual motherly affections), that a small selection of undergraduates had sent a faux array of rumours flying, suggesting that something had been going on between the Professor and a former student - hence her hefty absence - and although the Principle had thankfully been quick to deny that the rumours had held any substance (partially because the student in question couldn't do it himself), Minerva wasn't whole-heartedly satisfied that the rumour-mill had been successfully halted.

Bella would have been lying if she said she wasn’t worried by Minerva’s stance on the matter – or the seriousness of her deposition – but now, looking at the sullen faces of her twenty-something recruits, she knew she’d done her job better than ever before. Perhaps it was cruel (though she hadn't even scraped the tip of the iceberg yet), and yes, maybe it would need to get worse before it would get better, but she had left little room for doubt amongst the students here, and she was confident that they wouldn’t stray from their moral compasses if they knew what was right for them.

She flipped the pages of her register over, remembering what her sister had said when she’d handed it to her this morning:

“Just a tip, Bella: you may actually want to _look_ at the register this term. It’s important.” 

Of course, Bella hadn’t _actually_ followed through on her promise. But how important could it have really been? A register was a register, after all.

She clapped her hands thrice in quick succession. “Okay: Listen up! I only intend on doing this once, so let’s get it right. Hannah Abbott?”

“Here Professor.”

“Cho Chang?”

“Here Professor.”

“Fleur Delacour.”

“She’s been reassigned next door Professor,” Draco said.

It would have been barely perceptible from an onlookers perspective, but Hermione - who couldn't tear her eyes away from the Professor - saw her shoulders bristle and her lips, which had almost been threatening to smile when she called out Fleur's name slide into a frown. Still, names continued to fly across the classroom like cartilage and Draco even ducked when his name was called, before grinning in embarrassment. Hermione listened carefully, trying to affix names to faces if only to help her find her feet, but she couldn’t help but notice her name hadn’t been filed alphabetically like everyone else’s. _Maybe it hadn’t been added to the register at all,_ she thought. Hermione had almost drifted off into her own world, glancing around the room and studying the other students, when suddenly a hush so absolute fell over the room that Hermione felt herself looking impishly at Draco, who was staring back at her slack-jawed and flustered.

Hermione turned her head towards the front of the room, where her new Professor was staring daggers at her. The register in her hand appeared to be shaking and she looked as if she had just seen a ghost. The Professor had never exactly looked amicable, but now the animosity in her eyes was downright outrageous. She was seething and Hermione froze as the Professor clicked her neck from side to side, grinding her jaw, then listened as she re-read the name:

“ **G-granger,** ” She said lowering her voice as if she didn’t want to touch the name with her lips or her teeth or her tongue. Everyone in the room tensed, unnerved by the squaring of her shoulders.

“ **Granger?** ” she repeated, pushing it out into the room with a snarl of her lip.

The whole room gasped again when the Professor’s eyes settled on Hermione. Everyone appeared to be holding their breath; their eyes bulging with surprise. Hermione swallowed hard, her forehead furrowing into a frown, and then, once she realised the ground wasn't going to swallow her whole despite her best attempt at wishing upon a star, she replied with a meek:

“Here Professor.” 

Hermione chanced a quick glance down the line, aware that every eye in the room had fallen on her and every lung had been packed full of hot air. Professor Black looked worryingly close to lobbing the clipboard at her head and she felt Draco draw his shoulder away from hers just in case. “I’m here.”

“Speaking of things _you_ forgot to mention…” Draco mouthed, shaking his head in disbelief. Hermione stared back at him dumbstruck; her brow scrunched in confusion and her heart thundering non-stop against the cage beneath her skin. _What on earth had just happened?_

Hermione had no idea what she had done to provoke Professor Black's wrath, but fishing for clues was going to have to wait until she could get Draco alone. Before she could turn to Draco for answers, Professor Black was barking instructions across the room; her smoky voice now wavering slightly as she eyed her sister next door. "Pair up!" she shouted. "Let's see how much time you have devoted to your pirouettes in my absence!"

The class divided into pairs with ease, falling straight back into their old routine without preemption. Only Draco held back, looking torn between Hermione and his usual partner, Luna. "Go," Hermione whispered. "It's okay." 

Draco nodded and moved towards Luna, throwing his arm around her shoulder in welcome. Hermione waited awkwardly at the end of the line, shuffling backward to avoid sticking out like a sore thumb. Professor Black was standing in front of her desk now; legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded atop of the cane. She looked gleefully smug as she watched the room shift around Hermione like water; the waves parting around her almost as if she were contagious; their movements practiced and precise. 

"You, Little Miss _Firefly_ ," The Professor said, waving her cane in the general vicinity of Hermione's hiding place.

"Yes?" Hermione squeaked, wincing slightly as the Professor stepped down from her podium. 

"There's no point in hiding." The Professor said, stepping toe-to-toe with the new student. "Your light can't be dimmed now, _sweetheart_." 

Hermione ducked her head shyly, swallowing hard. She (embarrassingly) flinched when Professor Black shouted over her head, but it appeared to bolster Professor Black's spirit somewhat:

"Stretches, now! Go!" 

Everyone scrambled towards the barre at the back of the line except for Hermione, who was held in place by a tight grip on her bicep. 

"You _Firefly_ , are with me. Now that Delacour has decamped, we shall have to make the best of a rather dire situation."

_Great._

"Start stretching." 

Hermione took a deep breath and then, rather self-consciously, dipped into her usual set of warm-up exercises. It would have been easy to reset the thermometer in the room if Professor Black had decided to walk away, but instead, she stood nearby, watching Hermione with a look that vacillated between amusement and disdain. Warming her tense muscles under the reproachful gaze of the older woman was painful enough, but when the new student eased herself into a side-split, feeling her groin wretch and pop with the strain, Professor Black wasted no time in closing the distance between them, forcing Hermione's stomach to somersault in ways her body would never be physically capable off.

"Miss Granger, it's hardly a split if there's a gigantic, god-damned _gap_ between your pelvis and the floor!" Hermione's cheeks flared as the Professor illustrated her point by wedging a polished heel between her crutch and the floor, flexing her toes as she did so."You need to loosen up a little, otherwise, you know where the door is." 

Hermione pressed her hips down painfully, stubbornly stretching further than necessary. Then, with a huff, she wretched herself off the floor and reached for the barre, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a smug-looking Draco.

"Shut up." She hissed, nudging him further along the barre to make room and, with a face like thunder, Hermione slipped into the third position, catching up with her classmates. She followed the warm-up closely, using Draco as her template, and slowly began to allow her spine to decompress, loosening up now that she was back alongside the one friendly face she knew. 

Professor Black was still lingering nearby, but she had lost interest in Hermione when she'd joined the barre. Hermione listened as she corrected students', grateful for the reprieve, but then she felt Professor Black's hands slip over her hips and her shoulders, which had been doing a beautiful job of dropping and relaxing, now shot upwards towards her ears.

"Class has barely begun and you seem awfully...hot and bothered, _Granger_. Is there a problem?"

"No!" Hermione squeaked. "Everything is perfectly fine Professor."

Professor Black's hands were _heavy_ and consistent - their pressure generous and sure - and when Hermione realised that they were not going to lift unless she yielded to their request, she gave in to their heat and relented, easing her leg down from the barre. It had been set just above waist level, so Hermione made a deliberate show of wrapping her hand around her calf and extending her leg until her toes were almost touching her forehead, grounded by the weight of the Professor and the stubbornness of her own ego. 

"Better." Professor Black conceded, amused by the grimace on Hermione's face. "But perhaps you should consider investing in some cod-liver oil for those decrepit joints of yours. It's like WD-40 for the more flexibly-challenged."

 _Ouch! Another verbal slap._

Hermione stood up and rolled her shoulders, jutting out her jaw. "I can assure you, Professor, that whatever routine you have in mind, I can take it." 

Professor Black let out a sharp bark of laughter, astounded by the girls' naive valour; and, if Draco's accounts her had been correct, she had likely been agitated by it, too. The rest of the class seemed to agree with Professor Black, though, and her smile, which was all canines and fire appeared to say: _Game on_. 

"Be careful what you wish for, _Firefly_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, guys! So, here I am again. THANK YOU SO MUCH! There may not have been a flood of reviews, but what I do have, I've re-read again and again this week in the hope that I can do you guys justice with this next chapter. Little_Alligator, Chipperdyke, Peaches, and Beth - it's because of you four that I have continued writing this week. Your kindness is astounding and I hope you are all keeping well. I can't wait to hear what you think of this chapter, too. 
> 
> As you will have seen, I do not have the means necessary (or the creativity) to mastermind real boards which I could insert as images to replace the lists I have created to reflect things such as the 'Honours Board' or the list of 'Houses.' I hope the messiness of my presentation does not hamper the reading experience in any way. 
> 
> Any questions, please feel free to ask!
> 
> The mystery surrounding Hermione's surname is significant - I promise!
> 
> IMPORTANT TO MENTION:
> 
> *For the sake of this story, Bellatrix is in fact the *youngest* Black sister.  
> *Andi is now the eldest Black & Narcissa is the middle child.  
> *Narcissa is estranged, hence Draco's lack of relationship with Bella.  
> This will be addressed later on as part of a wider plot. 
> 
> I'll add to this list if and when I think of anything I forgot to mention, so it may be worth checking it again when Chapter 3 arrives!

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: As mentioned above, this is completely AU. The original timeline has therefore been maneuvered to fit with events occurring in today's world. For the sake of this story, Hermione's birthday has been moved to September 1999 (for example) which will make her twenty at the beginning of this fic. This will be my intention for most of the characters (although their birthdates will only be referred to if it needs to be mentioned for the context of the chapter). 
> 
> This fic is not a piece of work that I ever intended to publish. It is derived from pieces of my own original story, but I have taken the liberty of 'borrowing' JK Rowling's characters simply because I (as a fellow fan-fic reader) really appreciate every notification I get that says an author has updated. It really lifts my spirits to have new work to read and new worlds to explore, and given the dire situation we have found ourselves in, I thought it might be nice to contribute and offer up some escapism to those who find themselves needing another world to dive into. 
> 
> For the purpose of this fic, yes, Hermione will have grown up in Ireland, as did Neville (childhood!bestfriends). The first chapter is perhaps a little dry, but it will lighten up once Bellatrix truly comes on the scene - next chapter! - and more of JK Rowling's wonderful characters will make appearances throughout ensuring there is some much-needed humor between all the drama. 
> 
> Reviews are always wonderful to get. I'm a little unsure right now as to what Hermione's back-story may be, so if anyone had any ideas, it would be amazing to hear what you guys think! But I also must admit that upon reading the first chapter back, I myself found it a little confusing - please, bear with me here! I will do my best to unpick the story as best as I can for those who need me too, and hopefully, as the story develops, more will become clear anyway. 
> 
> Let me know if you think I should continue. Thanks!


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